At some point over the course of the day, your eye was caked shut by dried blood.
Coughing, you stumble down the alleyways of Grunge, weakly holding a wad of dirty bandages against the two wounds in your side. They've long since stopped bleeding, but you're afraid that they'll start again, leaving you collapsed against the dirty backstreets with nothing to your name.
It's been a long day.
A simple collections job in the morning went more sideways than you could have ever expected. They weren't supposed to be hosting an arms deal, they weren't supposed to have killed your partner, and they weren't supposed to have known that you were coming. Those facts hammer against the interior of your skull repeatedly, even as three rugged men sneer and part so you can move past them.
You curse the men under your breath. Their toothless grins respond in kind.
Your name is Zachary Seyler, and you barely escaped death tonight.
The year is 2085, and things are not as advanced as one would expect. At some point in the far past, a war happened that left deep scars on the world, leading to the destruction of anything inhuman that could potentially achieve sentience. In the wake of revoking many commodities that had become commonplace, people revolted with a slew of illegal behavior. Prisons were filled to bursting, body counts were rising, and the only solution short of executing the felons was to make some of those broken laws legal.
Of course, they weren't made legal for everyone. The country would have fallen into anarchy otherwise.
When certain selected people became of age, they were issued a little black card by the federal government themselves. This identification is enough to excuse them of certain crimes – murder, robbery, arson, the whole works. The only catch was that it needed to be controlled, so quotas and limits were put in place to handicap too much bad behavior. The reasoning given was that, if certain people could commit crimes without fear of consequences, it would reign the rest in, while keeping current criminals monitored.
Surprisingly, it worked.
Years passed with uncomfortable peace. Most people no longer bother with others. The government used these cards to dole out vigilante justice. Many card holders are contacted to this day, and pointed towards violators like weapons.
You're one of them, although not in a traditional sense.
You move out from the alley and onto the sidewalk, quickly moving to the side before you get mowed over by the fast moving crowd. A few people spare you a look, but nobody reaches out to help – they're most likely afraid to get involved. You could be somebody with a kill order on your head, or you could have botched your job and have people after you.
The latter is most certainly true, in this case.
Hot thrums of pain beat under your skin as you blindly trudge forward, webs of fire stretching from your side and down to your toes. You've been running for three hours, or maybe more, weaving complex trails across the city in order to throw off your pursuers. You hazard a glance over your shoulder – while you can't see much through the thick crowd of people, you're damn sure that you've shaken some of them off by now.
Just a little further.
Your vocal cords are shot from screaming. From code words to hasty commands to howled curses – you ache in the worst of ways.
Checking the neon street signs as you go along, you try to shut out the blaring noise of a loudspeaker as you round the last corner. Every fiber of your being wants to rest, but you know that if you drop to the ground now, you may just not get back up.
It takes another minute for you to limp over to your door, after two minutes of trying to find the right one through your blistering headache. The building is laughably small. It's made of dark brick, with only a single window that has a dark curtain drawn over it. A quick scan of the street shows that other than a few people likely going home from work. You can't detect anyone with particular malintent – maybe that's just the pain talking – so you reach around in your pocket for your key, and get it in the hole after four attempts with a shaky hand.
The door slowly opens, and the smell of old incense and alcohol greets you. You move inside, turn on your heel to shut the thing and slide the four deadbolts, letting out a long breath.
You immediately collapse to the floor afterwards.
Every bit of nervous energy coursing through your body evaporates as soon as you passed the threshold, and you gaze up helplessly at the rest of the room as you wait for your body to kick into gear again.
The room is just as cramped as the building makes it look. There's a corner of the room dedicated to a desk that's neatly arranged, with a widescreen computer and television dangerously perched atop of it. There are two tacky couches that have been shoved against the walls, with a circular table between the two. The rest of the walls are taken up by file cabinets, sans a door that leads into your back room.
All of it was her doing. You're glad you haven't processed her death, yet, because you'd be even more out of commission than you already are. There will be time for mourning later, once you don't have a group of killers on your tail.
Bit by bit, you force yourself off the ground, using the arm of the beige couch as leverage. It feels like your side is close to splitting open again, but despite the pain, you're able to move yourself into a leaning position with a few labored breaths.
"Can't stay here. Need to get moving."
You say these words to yourself, trying to inspire some font of energy to burst out from some hidden reservoir inside your body.
There is none to be found. Reality is cold.
Zachary, what do you do?
[] Rush to the television and turn it on to see if any details from the scene come up – you don't have anything to grab, as you've already hit rock bottom. Not like you can sink any deeper.
[] Move to the back room and start piling any weapon you can find into a duffel bag. You're a bit of a weapon nut – a trait that's served you well for the past few years of business.
[] Look for your little black contact book. Just about the only thing you've managed to cultivate in this job are reliable contacts – a luxury that many can't afford.
[] Break open the hidden section of the wall that contains the riches you and your deceased partner have saved up. You've never been a big spender – looks like that's helped you in the long run.
